


dark innocence

by hey_epic



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Origin Story, F/M, Gen, High School, Origin Story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:20:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27247186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hey_epic/pseuds/hey_epic
Summary: Every villain has a story. Every story has a beginning. Joker/OC
Relationships: Joker & Original Female Character(s), Joker (DCU)/Original Female Character(s), Joker/Original Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	1. the boy from the narrows

* * *

**one | the boy from the narrows**

**.**

**.**

**_1989_ **

The first time I hear the name _Jack Napier_ is on a balmy, cloudless September afternoon.

It happens where any and all gossip is shared - a sacred quadrant of chalked lines, roomy enough for a scuffed rubber ball to bounce between each square. This foursquare court, located just far away enough from the playground, provides leeway to whisper and speculate every lunch period, and it's been our space since our friendship had been kindled in grade one.

It's here that I learned last year that Ruth Williams and Jimmy Anderson had gone steady (Amanda _swore_ she saw them holding hands near their lockers), and then heard of their break-up two weeks later. Jane Cooper was seen with gum in her hair for the entire morning last week and it was Jessie who _definitely_ heard her sniffled cries in the south corridor stairwell just before lunch.

That was five years ago, and with time this became our safe, shared sanctuary to whisper about crushes, old flames, and today - new students.

"Jack Napier," I repeat, intrigued, serving the ball towards my blonde friend across the way. "Where did you see him?"

"The front office," Amanda says, slapping the ball away from her to the opposite square. Her delicate features are twisted into a grimace as she continues, "You guys should have seen him, he was so weird looking."

"I bet," Jessie says, chasing after the dribbling ball and rolling it back towards the court. A scoff of disgust follows as she serves it towards me. "I heard he's from the _Narrows_."

"Definitely," Amanda agrees. "His sneakers had _holes_ in them! And he didn't even have a backpack!"

"He's totally homeless or, like, living in the gutters."

"With the rats!"

They both erupt into laughter but I stay quiet, my eyes focused on the motion of the ball and my mind wandering elsewhere. I'm not surprised to hear my friends' judgmental comments. Amanda and Jessie both live in Gotham Heights - one of the more affluent parts of town, just a couple of blocks over from my more modest neighborhood. Amanda's father is a top surgeon at Gotham General and Jessie's a trust fund baby - a far cry from my family's failing business.

"Party planning is the next big thing!" my mother had proclaimed years ago over a pot roast dinner, sending my father into a downward spiral as she admitted to injecting most of their savings into her new venture.

Party planning, as it turned out, was _not_ the next big thing. Bouncy castle rentals and cotton candy machines collected dust in the warehouse she'd leased out, even with the summer months bringing in warm weather and fresh, doe-eyed graduates. The contracted workers struggled harder, with former magicians spotted at gas station cash registers and caricature artists selling used cars near the outskirts of town.

The severity of the declining health of the business was made very apparent, however, when my father brought me into a boutique on the north end of town for a mother's day gift. Wearing a faded blue apron and selling little hand soaps stood a man in his fifties with a papery lined face and dark eyebrows. He was like any other older, struggling person in Gotham and was unremarkable, really, but when he'd approached us in that little store and stooped low to smile at me, a chill ran through me. The crooked yellow teeth were shining under the dim lighting in a tight smile, and an image flooded my thoughts of that same smile, four years ago.

He'd looked much different then, wearing white face paint and a curly red wig and skipping in ballooned pants and squeaky red shoes. My mother had introduced him as _Happy The Clown_ , pulling me forward by the shoulders and introducing me as the lucky birthday girl.

His red-smeared smile stretched wide as he'd leaned down to pat me on the head, beady eyes surrounded by black and stale breath fanning across my face in a way that had turned my stomach.

"Why would someone from the Narrows even be here?" Jessie speaks up, her voice breaking my trance. She's dribbling the ball idly in her corner, peering up at a single cloud floating over the sun. "Aren't there schools down there?"

She has a point, I think to myself. The Narrows are only a couple of miles south of my neighborhood - but _are_ there schools? The area isn't completely empty and I know there are section nine housing units and The remnants of old coal factories and meat packing facilities sit empty and broken, the row houses are compacted together and barely hanging on, and a few liquor stores with barred windows appear on a few blocks. It's hard to imagine children weaving in and out of the filthy alleyways, passing by the degenerates littering the area.

The Narrows is a city in itself - a ghost town housing the dead and diseased and everything wrong with Gotham. Prostitutes teeter on stilettos on fifth avenue, slipping in and out of beaters with bruised thighs and runny makeup. The gutted out convenience stores serve as a space of solitude for the homeless, with tents set up in a sea of expired food cans and empty whisky bottles. And there's always the rumors that one of the city's biggest meth labs is being operated in the abandoned steel mill, pumping out the dirtiest, cheapest junk on the market.

Thinking about the boy named Jack Napier leaving our squeaky clean school each day to commute two miles south to skid row just didn't seem right - but rumors and gossip in Gotham Heights usually gave way to some semblance of reality.

"Katie," Amanda calls out to me, taking me out of my thoughts and bringing me back to the noisy playground. "It's your serve."

.

.

* * *

.

.

I first see Jack Napier two days later, when the temperature has dropped and the blue expanse of the sky is almost completely concealed by heavy storm clouds. It happens shortly after the girls and I finish our usual game to sit against the red brick wall and enjoy our packed lunches, something that is routinely disappointing for me. Amanda pulls out a Tupperware container and when she peels back the lid, the aroma of honey chicken drifts outward, and I have to force my hungry eyes away to peer inside of my paper bag and see the usual peanut butter and banana sandwich, carrots, and a juice box. _Another boring letdown_ , I think, and pull out the sandwich.

"There's the weirdo," Jessie speaks up through a mouthful of yogurt, nodding ahead towards the swings.

I look up to catch a glimpse of him, but I'm distracted by a couple of boys near the tetherball pole talking loudly to one another. I recognize both of them; one is a chubby, pink-faced bully named Timothy who's known for his loud belches and smart mouth. The boy next to him has dark, spiky hair and green eyes and I've been in love with him since kindergarten.

"Here comes the slum rat," I hear Timothy say.

Josh laughs, and my heart skips at the sound. "I heard he killed his parents with a boxcutter."

As if in a competition, Timothy rattles off another tidbit about the new student. "Oh yeah? Well _I_ heard he skins live rats and drinks their _blood_!"

They both laugh, Timothy slapping the ball around the pole violently, and I tear my attention away to focus on the swings.

In all fairness, I'm not sure what I was expecting to see. A menacing smile with razor-sharp teeth? A blood-splattered shirt with an accompanying knife in hand? A murderous, rat-eating slum boy _should_ look a certain way - I think - like one of those monsters in a horror movie that stalk and butcher their teenaged prey. But the boy I'm staring at isn't an obvious monster. He's a painfully _ordinary_ boy that's my age or a year older, with wavy, dark blond hair and a tall, thin frame. He's not wielding any weapons or wearing the skin of his victims, though. He's just _so normal_ in his grey jeans and white t-shirt, sitting immobile on the swing and staring down at the wood chips, seemingly oblivious to the whispers and stares of the other students.

"I heard he's mute," Amanda says. She passes a ziplock bag of pretzels towards me, popping a handful into her mouth. "He doesn't say a word to anyone."

I fish out a few but keep them in the palm of my hand, distracted by the lone figure at the playground. He hasn't moved at all, with both hands on either side of the braided chains.

"Of course he doesn't," Jessie snorts, popping open a can of Sprite. She takes a long drink before continuing, "He's a creeper who probably killed his parents and sleeps in a dumpster every night."

"He looks kind of normal to me," I say carefully, earning a gasp from each of my friends, and I quickly continue, "for a boy from the Narrows, I mean."

_Smooth recovery_ , I think, hearing them giggle beside me. I can't lose Amanda and Jessie as friends and I know their loyalty to me lies in part to me agreeing with everything they believe. That includes thinking that the new boy is a _disgusting slum rat_ , apparently, so I must play along.

The bell alerting us that lunch was over rings out over the cloudy playground, carrying through the chilled air and fading away into nothingness. A few raindrops are beginning to trickle down from the sky, further inviting us into the warm, dry school. Amanda and Jessie begin packing up their color-coordinated lunch boxes but I remain seated, the crumpled paper bag in my lap rustling gently with a small gust of wind. Standing to both feet, I take one more glance towards the swings and see the boy is no longer sitting, but standing and stretching his arms overhead. He lets them fall to his sides and then as if knowing I'm staring at him, slowly looks in my direction.

_Drip._

Two black, empty eyes stare at me from under a curtain of messy hair and for a moment I can't breathe. How can his eyes be _so black -_ even from this distance?

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

Fat droplets of water plop across the bridge of my nose and trickle into the corners of my eyes, breaking our gaze, and I rub at them quickly before moving my attention back to the swings. Swaying gently in the increasingly steady rain is his empty seat and I feel a familiar dip of disappointment in my stomach.

_Drip. Drip. Drip. DripDripDrip DripDripDripDripDripDripDrip._

He's gone.

.

.

* * *

.

.

I first interact with Jack Napier one week later, when the stormy weather has cleared and brought in warmer, sticky autumn air. It's during lunch that he emerges from the school, finding his place on the same swing, and when I finally see him, I realize that the playground is the only place I've ever seen him. It's as if he's a ghost, appearing only during lunch hour and then flickering away to another dimension or reality, only to return the next day. Jessie's theorized over the week that he's in the special needs classes - probably _retarded_ \- earning a smack in the arm from Amanda, but I'm still not sure. The special needs classes are in the same block of classrooms as the regular ones and someone would've seen him at least once, in the bathroom or walking to his next class, but he's remained invisible within the school halls since his arrival.

"I'm annoyed we can't play today," Jessie groans as she approaches us, plopping down with her lunch box and sitting indian style. She narrows her eyes in the direction of the tetherball court, where Timothy and Joshua are slapping the yellow ball back and forth with one another. "That fat idiot owes us a ball."

The day before, Timothy had thought it would be funny to kick our ball over the fence and into the creek behind the playground, cackling as Jessie screamed and chased after him, and Amanda and I were both sure that he probably had a crush on her.

"Well I wouldn't even be able to play," Amanda replies, cradling both arms against her stomach. She's been wracked with stomach cramps all morning and had insisted that we sit with her for _girl power_ support. She groans, her lead lolling back against the red brick and her blonde hair spilling over her shoulders. "I'm telling you guys, I'm gonna get my period any day now."

"No way, you're only _eleven_ ," Jessie points, laughing. She plays with the green elastic band on her wrist before pulling it off and gathering her impossibly curly dark hair into a ponytail and smooths the baby hairs on her temples and I am momentarily entranced, tucking a strand of my own hair behind my hair. With Amanda's silky blonde hair and Jessie's wild ringlets, I've always felt unremarkable with my plain, light brown hair.

"So?" replies Amanda, shooting daggers at our friend.

Jessie is fishing through her lunch box as she looks up with a smirk. "Soooo you probably ate some of Grace's pot roast and got sick that way. You just have to poop, _Mandy_."

Grace is her evil step-monster and is always attempting to create elaborate meals that would almost always end up in the garbage bin. I've experienced a few of her experiments, with the memory of her trademark - something called _duck confit_ \- lurching a shiver through me.

"Don't call me that," Amanda retorts, glaring down at her lap. "And you know I wouldn't touch that wench's food. It's definitely my period. Besides, my sister got hers when she was _nine_."

"She did not!"

"She _did!_ "

"Anyone want a carrot stick?" I chime in, shaking my baggie towards the two girls. Truthfully, I've heard this conversation at least once a week for the last year. It always plays out the same way - Amanda is positive she's about to get her period, Jessie argues that it's not possible - that she's probably sick from Grace's cooking or constipated - and Amanda sulks shortly after using the bathroom, refusing to acknowledge that Jessie was right. Rinse, repeat.

"Nobody wants your gross carrots, Katie," Jessie snaps, waving a hand at me. "I swear, your mom's the only one who packs that lame stuff _and_ still clips _these_ in your hair." She leans forward, ruffling the light pink ribbon clipping a section of my hair to the side, shaking some of the strands loose. "Aww, look how _cute_ ," she cooes, "Little Katie's a little babyyyy."

"Stop it," I swat at her, humiliation burning at my cheeks. She knows I hate the ribbon clips my mother insists on decorating my hair with. She also knows that carrot sticks are the healthier, cheaper alternative to the fruit roll-ups or gushers packed in her lunch every day. _We have to make sacrifices_ , my mother had told my brother and I the night we found out our father had lost his job at the post office. That had happened just six months after she'd drained their bank account to chase after her dream of operating Gotham's most successful party planning business.

"Lay off her, Jess," Amanda warns, shoving Jessie's arm away and offering me a soft smile as she plucks a carrot stick from my bag. "Thanks, Katie."

Since taking me under her wing in the first grade, Amanda has always advocated for me. I'd accidentally left the stall door unlocked that day, sitting with my lunch bag in my lap and quietly eating my sandwich when the door had swung open, revealing the surprised blonde girl. It must've been a sad sight to see, but from that day onward she'd befriended me. Jessie had become a friend by association - her mother and Amanda's had them in the same week and they'd been inseparable since.

We continue eating, my two friends arguing over the average age a woman gets her period, while I focus on scribbling star shapes and heart patterns with my chalk stick. It's ground down to the stump now, my fingertips scraping against the asphalt, so I abandon it and stretch out instead. The warmth of the sun feels welcome against my bare legs, and I like the way the light brings out the little purple sparkles in my jelly sandals. I rock my feet back and forth, smiling as I watch the glitter dance across the surface of my shoes.

"Look who it is," Jessie says, pointing across the playground. "Of course the _freak_ makes the sun go and hide away."

The fleeting moment of joy is quickly shadowed - literally - by a passing cloud above us. The shadow falls across our intricate doodles, casting a brief chill in the air, and I don't need to ask who she's referring to. She's pointed him out almost every single day since he first appeared a week ago, commenting on his ratty tees and tattered sneakers or the fact that he never spoke to anyone or looked like he smelled like rotting garbage.

"He never has a lunch," Amanda says. "No wonder he's so skinny."

Jessie snorts, popping an animal cracker into her mouth. "What, the alley rats aren't enough?"

Something in me twists - a sick, lurching feeling in my stomach that reminds me of when I found out our dog Pepper had an inoperable tumor. My mother had broken the news to my brother and I a couple of months ago, and I'd cried myself to sleep every night that week. Since then, Pepper can barely hold down her watered-down food and spends most of her days curled up on her bed, too tired to move or play. I've tried coaxing her off the bed with a chew stick or her favorite stuffed penguin toy, but she's only been able to stare up at me with sad, sick eyes.

Thinking about Pepper stirs something awful in me, and before I realize what I'm doing, I'm on both feet and moving away from the chalk mural with my little lunch sack in both hands.

"Where are you going?" Amanda asks, and I look over my shoulder at the swings where the boy from the Narrows sits.

"I'm going to see if he wants some," I reply, swallowing against a lump in my throat. Looking back down at my friends, I see Jessie's hazel eyes widened in horror and Amanda looking at me with an unreadable expression.

"Are you insane?" Jessie hisses, jabbing his finger towards the swings. "He's a _freak_ , he could _kill_ you!"

I wait to respond for a moment, knowing that this decision could change things with my best friends - I could be cast out, discarded. Friendless. Fear ripples through me as I think back to a time before this - when I ate my lunches in a bathroom stall - and I consider my options. I could always sit back down, laughing that I'm kidding, that I didn't mean it, _of course_ I didn't. That I'd _never_ talk to the slumrat.

Pepper's sad eyes suddenly appear in the back of my mind, and they're staring hopelessly into her food bowl. She's taking tentative bites, slowly eating and pausing to wheeze. And then her frail body is lurching forward, regurgitating into the corner, rejecting her meal, and she's left whining into the night on an empty stomach.

That sick feeling twinges in my stomach again and it confirms what I already know.

"No one should go hungry," I say firmly, clutching my bag a little tighter. "So I'm going to do this."

Jessie looks at me like I'd grown another head and jerks back as if I'd burned her with my words, disgust evident over her face. Amanda, however, hasn't moved or spoken a word, and before I walk away, I can see the corner of her mouth lift ever so slightly. I smile back, hoping that maybe - just _maybe_ \- she understands _why_ I'm willingly putting my reputation on the line for this boy. I inhale slowly and turn to make my trek across the playground to the swings, where the boy's lanky silhouette sits.

_Think of Pepper,_ I remind myself with slow steps, pausing only for a moment as the sun reappears. Pepper's hungry whines in the back of my head are reassurance that I'm not crazy for doing this, and the fresh sunlight is soothing as it casts a warm, comforting blanket over my bare arms. Its hazy, soft light washes over the playground, over the swings, over him, and my heart's beating harder than I can remember as I approach.

The boy either doesn't notice me or doesn't care to look up, even with my shadow moving across his long legs. It's when I'm close enough that _I_ notice _him._ He's wearing dark jeans with a tear in one knee and a long-sleeved grey shirt, the hem dangling with loose threading. Filthy black sneakers rest on the ground and I see the left shoe has a tiny tear near the ankle. My eyes roam up towards his face - the face I'm expecting to be ghoulish and horrifying - but I'm stricken by how normal it is. The texture of his hair is in between curly and wavy, falling over his ears, and I can make out different shades of gold and wheat under the sheen of the sun. His face isn't rounded like most of the other boys in my class - it's gaunt and sharp and hard- and the only softness I can see is the dusting of freckles over the bridge of his nose.

I'm stunned for a moment, taking him in, perplexed. _This_ is the boy who butchered his parents with a box cutter and eats live rodents? The homeless slumrat from the Narrows has _freckles_ and _highlights_?

He still hasn't looked up as I take a seat next to him, the swing squeaking under my weight. The plastic of the seat is warm against the back of my legs, even through my skirt, and it's a momentary comfort as the uncomfortable silence lies heavy between us. I inhale deeply, turning fully to look at him. _Here goes nothing_ , I think.

"H..hi," I finally manage, inwardly cringing. It's an awkward greeting but a greeting nonetheless. He doesn't reply, and for the first time I notice he's not completely still. There's a very, _very_ faint sway of his swing, forward and back, the soles of his shoes skimming the wood chips below. It's comforting to see, truth be told. This isn't some phantom fading in and out of reality - it's a human being. Just an ordinary boy.

My lunch sack has nearly torn from the vice-like grip my fingers have on it, and I open it carefully, bringing out the plastic baggie with the sandwich tucked inside. The inside of the plastic has little smears of peanut butter and the sandwich is a little smushed from sitting in my backpack, and I think it should be okay, but then my stomach grumbles as I pull it out and rip it in half and I hope it's enough for two.

The peanut butter seeps out from the sides and onto my fingers as I pull it apart, and when I extend it outward towards him, his swing stops swaying.

"Um. I thought you'd be hungry," I offer lamely, waving the sandwich half. He's not responding, not moving, not doing _anything_ and in that moment I feel heat creep up my neck and into my face knowing that I'd have to walk back to my friends, defeated and rejected by the _rat eater_. The silence is almost enough to prompt me to stuff the sandwich back into the bag and walk off, dejected, but when I catch a glimpse of his face - which has slowly turned in my direction - I stop. His eyes are dark and cast downward on the sandwich and he's still not moving for speaking, but I know I have his attention.

"It's peanut butter," I explain awkwardly, carefully. "A-and banana."

There's a pause - a lingering between us - and my arm trembles under the strain from holding it outward.

It's a slow movement, but it's there. His right hand leaves the chainlink and reaches out towards me, towards my offering. I'm not sure I'm breathing when he takes it from me, and I'm half expecting him to smash it between his fingers and toss it to the ground or laugh in my face. But he doesn't destroy it, he doesn't laugh. He doesn't speak, but in what seems to be slow motion, he examines it before bringing it up to his mouth and taking a bite. Unexpected relief washes through me in an awesome wave as I watch him take another bite, and I join him, biting into my own half and kicking at the wood chips as I swing and eat. My eyes flicker upward and I see other students whispering, pointing, judging. I swallow a large bite and then take another, keeping my eyes on my lap.

"I'm Katie," I say through a mouthful of sticky peanut butter. He's eating more feverishly now and I feel a surge of confidence at seeing him accept my gesture. "I haven't seen you around in the school, are you in the sixth grade?"

There's silence for several seconds before he responds, and his voice is quiet and deeper than most other boys in my class.

His response is a single word - no frills, no warmth, no further clarification.

"No."

I pause on my swing, glancing over at him, and see that he's finished his half. He's staring ahead again, the breeze ruffling his hair. A surge of disappointment sweeps through me. I'm not sure what I expected back. An introduction? A _thank you_? A simple smile?

I finish my sandwich half shortly after, crumpling the plastic baggie into the lunch sack, and make a move to return to my friends. They'd been watching us the entire time - Jessie with unrestricted horror and Amanda with something I couldn't make out - but at least I could return to them with something about the boy from the Narrows. No, Jack Napier wasn't an obvious monster and he didn't have deformities or fangs or bloody clothes. And sure, I was in one piece after our interaction - but he definitely had no interest in talking to me.

"Alright then," I say, turning to look at him. "I guess I'll see you around."

His gaze, which has been focused downward almost the entire time I've been sitting with him, slowly lifts and meets mine, and suddenly I'm back in the rain, staring at this boy from across the playground. His eyes a week ago had been black and empty and blank and that's what I'd expect this up-close. I'm startled, though, when his stare locks on mine, because I see his eyes aren't black. They're not empty.

In that moment, a pair of dark brown eyes look at me with something I can only identify as curiosity.

.

.

.


	2. the girl who knows loneliness

* * *

**two | the girl who knows loneliness**

**.**

**.**

Jack Napier has disappeared.

Or so it seems, with the empty swings swaying against their chilly gray backdrop throughout each lunch period. A day passes, then a week, and it's finally at the full month mark that I'm positive he's no longer a student. It's a bitingly cold afternoon - likely one of our last outside lunches - when I've given up on catching a glimpse of wavy blond hair or long, lanky legs. Something unpleasant twitches in my chest at the realization that I'll likely not see him again, and my attention lingers on the playground. The empty swing is a bright red splash against the muted sky and if I _really_ focus, I can almost see the shape of him.

"Looking for _lover boy_?"

Jessie's voice is raspy from the combination of chilly air and the tail end of a chest cold. She's flung her denim backpack aside, the sparkly jeweled front catching light. I'd asked for the same bag for my birthday in May but the business had been at an all-time low and I'd settled with a small cake and a simple bracelet.

"Maybe he got rabies and died," she suggests, a dark curl falling over her eyes as she looks up towards the swings. She's stooped low, tying the laces on the new Doc Martens her parents surprised her with last weekend.

"That's mean," Amanda cuts in, brushing by to drop her bag against the wall. It's made of clear, soft plastic and the inside is stuffed with the essentials of any eleven year old girl: a spare scrunchy, a tube of lip gloss, and a handheld mirror. She's wearing a bright blue puffer jacket and stonewashed jeans, both impeccable and pretty against her fair skin and light hair. I tighten my arms around my hand-me-down parka, looking away from the swings and down at the tops of my scuffed white sneakers.

"You're right, I feel _so_ bad for the poor rat he probably ate." Jessie stands up tall, shaking out her legs and admiring the shiny black boots with a smile. She's wearing gray leggings and a dark, chunky-knit sweater under a hunter green military jacket. Reaching for our ball, she wriggles her eyebrows at me and grins. "Maybe your _boring_ sandwich scared him off instead."

The sweet smell of Baby Soft perfume wafts near and I feel a warm, comforting arm sling over my shoulder. "Jessica," snaps Amanda, tightening her arm around me, and the heat creeping up my neck settles. Using Jessie's full name meant business. Amanda squeezes my shoulder again, shooting a hard glare at our friend. "Stop being a bitch."

"God, chill out," Jessie snorts, rolling her eyes. "Noel saw him the other day, so he's not dead." Pausing, she takes her stance and makes a hard serve in my direction. "Lucky you."

My heart skips and suddenly my thoughts feel like scrambled eggs as I piece together this new information. Noel Martin is the smartest student at GH Middle School and is ahead by at least two years. She's also never seen on the main floor and it's only a millisecond before the lightbulb goes off in my head and I remember why. "Isn't she in Connections?"

"Sure is," Jessie says, tapping her foot impatiently and looking over my shoulder at the ball. "I doubt that's where she saw him though. That's for those crazy smart kids."

"So what?" Amanda sighs. "Maybe he's crazy smart?"

"Nah, he's just crazy."

I retrieve the ball and serve it lightly, my arms going through the motions but my thoughts on something else - on _someone_ else. Connections is an advanced placement curriculum set up in the lowest level of the school - the _pits of hell_ to many - and if he _is_ in that program, it would explain why I haven't seen him in the halls at all. To Jessie's point, though, it's the hardest AP program to get into. While the rest of us are on basic pre-algebra and identifying plant types, the Connections kids are being introduced to high school physics and calculus as early as month three. Noel Martin certainly fits the mold - but does a mute from the worst part of Gotham?

"My big sis has the car today," Amanda changes the subject, turning her attention to me. "Did you want a ride after school, Kate?"

"No thanks," I say with a smile, bouncing the ball towards her. "I have flute practice."

**.**

**.**

* * *

**.**

**.**

My jaw is sore and my mouth is dry by four thirty and I'm struggling to hold my instrument up. Mr. Williams has pushed us through the same two songs over and over and _over_ again - insisting each are perfected before the winter concert. There's a damp, drafty air leaking through one of the industrial pipes in the ceiling that's been going off every twenty minutes, and shivering, I set my flute aside and pull my arms through the sleeves of my hoodie. Our weekly practice has moved to the south corridor due to plumbing issues in the north wing, and while it's not _that_ far of a difference to walk, the temperature is a good fifteen degrees colder here.

Class is finally dispersed. As I nestle my instrument into its case and click it shut, Mr. Williams reminds us for the hundredth time to practice, practice, _practice_ over the weekend. _Sure, I'll practice_ , I think to myself. _As soon as I get home._

I'll walk through the door and before my mother can speak a word, the clunky case will crash in front of her feet, popping open. I'll scream that I'm tired of playing this _stupid_ instrument and that I _quit_ and that I only do this because she _makes_ me. Then I'll tell her I'm trying out for cheerleading instead and there's _nothing_ she can do.

Every week this exact scene plays out in my mind, sending a delicious shiver through me. But it'll never happen. And I know it.

Pulling on my jacket and slinging my nylon backpack over one shoulder, I head towards the back exit and push the heavy doors open, the frigid air stinging my cheeks and dejection heavy in my heart.

**.**

**.**

* * *

**.**

**.**

With the autumn chill comes an earlier evening, and the light of day is fading away as I'm walking away from the school. Being almost twelve and trekking a mile home with the sun sinking into the horizon isn't something most mothers would be onboard with, so I've perfected a believable excuse.

_Amanda's sister gave me a lift to the nearest corner and I walked half a block to our house,_ I'll tell her. _She didn't drop me off right at the driveway because she'd have to turn around and I didn't want to hassle her._ Perfectly rehearsed, perfectly believable.

I can't tell her the real reason why I'm choosing to take half an hour out of my day to walk in the cold. _It's an escape_ , I wish I could say. _It gives me time away from Jessie's new boots and Amanda's designer jackets._ The grip on the cold handle of my case tightens. _I can forget about your stupid flute lessons._

The cloudy sky is darkening with its impending nightfall as I make my way across the parking lot and turn onto a seemingly endless road. It's one of the longest streets in the city and provides easy, direct access between the school district and the north suburbs. Victorian houses of all shapes and sizes and colors are dotted along my walk, their warm yellow lights flickering on as daylight slips into dusk.

A calm quietness blankets the air around me and for a moment I hear nothing but my own breath. A faint bark in the distance rings out and I can just barely make out a police siren far out - likely downtown - but here, in this moment, I am alone.

_I wonder what's for dinner_ , I think, and then grimace when I remember a conversation with my mom this morning. _Stuffed peppers, Colin's favorite. Ugh._

My gaze shifts downward, watching my sneakers make careful steps over each crack in the pavement. Leaves crunch under the soles and it's a satisfying sound - a nice distraction from the ugly, heavy case in my hand. An overgrown hedge ahead piques my interest, and my fingers twitch against the handle. _Maybe I can tell mom I lost it._

The sounds of the leaves crunching become louder, heavier, and then I'm nearly knocked over from the sight of another person breezing past me.

I stop for a moment to calm myself, pressing a palm to my hammering chest. No one _ever_ took this street at this time, let alone showcased such disregard for another person. Looking towards the person making quick strides ahead, I see the back of a boy wearing dark jeans and a thin sweatshirt with the hood up. My eyes follow down long legs to dirty sneakers and when I see the familiar tear on the ankle, I'm brought back to the swings a month ago, with the same ratty sneakers with the tear in the same place.

He hasn't disappeared, it seems. Or died. But he _has_ almost knocked me over without a second thought.

Before I realize what I'm doing, my pace picks up and I'm moving towards him. "Hey," I call out, my voice hoarse and dry in the cold air. He doesn't turn or slow down so I clear my throat and try again, this time, louder. "Hey.. you!"

He stops walking as I approach, his back still facing me, and then I'm right behind him, and it's just the two of us on an empty sidewalk after sundown. He's bone-thin and much taller than other boys at our school.

"I… remember you," I say, my breath visible in the air in front of my lips. "You're the new kid, right?"

He turns then to look at me, and the same pale, expressionless face from a month ago is in full view. I see the same eyes - eyes that under sunlight had looked warm and brown - staring at me as two black coals against the nightfall. He narrows them as he takes in my face, and that unpleasant, sinking feeling washes through me again. The heaviness I feel when I open my lunch bag everyday, or see Jessie's new boots. Disappointment. He stares at me as if he doesn't remember me - doesn't remember the stupid girl who shared her _stupid_ peanut butter sandwich with him a month ago.

So I try again. "I'm Katie, I met you at lunch last mo -"

"I know," he cuts me off, and his voice sounds so hollow for a boy his age. He's still narrowing his gaze at me, like he's trying to reach inside of me and dismantle me, piece by piece.

He's silent, not making any move to say anything else, and I'm wanting to _die_. Shuffling from one foot to the other, I blurt out the first thing - the only thing - on my mind. "Where've you been?"

He leans back, just a bit, and then quirks an eyebrow.

_You are so stupid, Katie_ , I want to scream. _Like it's any of your business._ Inhaling shakily, I settle on the next best thing, "I just haven't seen you in awhile."

His eyebrow is still lifted, his face is still unreadable, and the desire to crawl into a hole is exploding through me in a humiliating wave. _Say something_ , I'm tempted to bellow at him, at myself. But he doesn't speak and neither do I and then as quickly as this encounter unfolded, his back is to me and he's continuing on his way.

It's dark now - much colder than any night in recent weeks - and I'm left standing flushed and alone and clutching my flute case. Watching him move away from me, I weigh my options. I could wait for him to get further ahead so I'm not awkwardly trailing behind him. I could ring a doorbell and call my mom and tell her Amanda's sister couldn't drive me today.

A movement ahead interrupts my frantic problem solving, and for a moment I think I'm seeing things.

Stopped ahead, the boy with the black eyes turns to look over his shoulder, and while he's not _really_ looking _at_ me, he's definitely acknowledging that I'm there.

And then I hear two words, cold and hollow but somehow so comforting.

"You coming?"

**.**

**.**

* * *

**.**

**.**

Maybe I shouldn't have agreed to walk with him.

The overwhelming awkwardness I'd felt minutes before has escalated into something suffocating as I claw at my brain, desperately trying to find something to talk about. He's not making any attempt at conversation, which really doesn't surprise me, but what _does_ is that his long strides from earlier have slowed to match mine. His hands are stuffed in the flimsy pockets of his hoodie, and I'm freezing just _looking_ at him.

The reality of my situation sets in.

Enveloped in the quiet, frigid dusk, I'm walking home with the boy from the _Narrows_. The _slum rat_. The boy who killed his parents with a box cutter. The boy named Jack Napier.

Glancing up an around us, I'm feeling uneasy. Jessie and Amanda live nowhere near here, thankfully, and guilt pulses gently in my chest.

"So…" I begin, the words tumbling from my mouth, "Your name's Jack, right? Are you in the seventh grade?"

For a moment, I can only hear our footsteps on the dead leaves. His are much heavier than mine but somehow we're walking in-sync, one long leg marching in time with a shorter one. And then in the heavy silence comes a single word, a confirmation - a flicker of hope that maybe I _won't_ be talking to myself on this walk.

"Yes."

_Okay_ , I think to myself, _He's in seventh grade but I haven't seen him around._ The logical follow-up question comes out before I can think it through, "Are you in Connections?"

Leaves crunching, rubber padding against concrete. A faint bark, another siren.

"Yu- _p_ ," he drawls.

"Wow, that's for like.. the crazy smart kids." I'm cringing as soon as the words leave my mouth, Jessie's snarky voice from earlier ringing through my head. When he doesn't contribute further, my word vomit keeps spilling outward. "You guys have normal lunches though, right? I was just confused when I didn't see you on the playground."

No response. _Okay, Katie, he probably doesn't want to talk about lunch since he never has anything to eat. Try something else._ "So... do you live near Gotham Heights?"

"No," he snorts, and this time the sound isn't subtle at all. "I don't."

"Me neither," I say, Jessie's massive brick house and Amanda's wrap-around porch are vivid and brilliant in my head and are _nothing_ like my family's single-story ranch. "I mean, I kinda live near there, but not _actually_ there. My family could never afford to live there."

His gaze slides sideways towards me in a way not unlike the day on the swings, when I'd offered him half a sandwich, and then his focus moves downwards towards the hefty box in my right hand.

"Oh, um… this thing," I say, heat crawling up my neck at the sudden need to explain _why_ I'm carrying such a monstrosity. "My mom forced me into lessons like three years ago. I hate it and want to try out for cheer but here I am," I'm blabbering, rattling the case with a light shake. "Stuck with this stupid thing."

His attention is forward again, his hands swallowed in the pockets of his black hoodie. _He doesn't care, you idiot_ , a voice in my head hisses.

I'm surprised by the sound of his voice a second later and even more shocked by his words - because I realize he's actually _listening_.

"So... quit."

I blink up at him, my fingers tightening around the flute case. "What do you mean?"

He turns then, eyes locking on mine, and they're so black and intense for a thirteen year old boy that I'm wondering if he's actually a grown man in a teenager's body. "If you hate it, quit," he repeats slowly, his gaze unwavering. "And try out for what you want."

My mouth opens and closes and then opens again and I'm about to say _you're the first person to say something like this_ but I'm distracted by a familiar block of houses approaching. My street, lined with cookie cutter houses adorned in plastic siding, is a far cry from the elegant dollhouses we'd just passed by.

"Home sweet home," I sigh, looking at Jack. "Do you live far from here?"

"Yeah," he says after a moment. "I do."

"Oh." Chewing my lower lip and thinking of what to say next, it dawns on me that this spooky new boy is standing in the bitter cold under a single street lamp with me. "It's kinda late though... how will you get home?"

He glances at me and under the warmth of the overhead light, I'm treated to the softer brown color of his eyes again. He looks less scary in this light, with his dark blond hair tucked under a hood and the freckles on his nose visible. He looks human again, less phantom-y, and it's a welcome sight.

He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, finally looking away from me. "I take Fifth all the way."

Nodding, I remember that it's Friday and that not only won't I be seeing him for a few days, I likely won't see him at school, either. _Here goes nothing_ , I assure myself, inhaling deeply. "You know... if you want to have lunch again sometime, we could do that." My cheeks are burning hot as I force my attention to the discolored threading of the laces in my sneakers. I kick at a chipped piece of sidewalk, the heat in my face excruciating. "I mean, if you want."

The silence between us is agonizing and prepared to accept defeat, I turn my gaze back upwards. His eyes are back on mine, narrowed again - but this time it's almost as to say _what's the catch?_

I tell him the only rational thing that comes to mind, and the words are tangled and awkward and shaky as the truth behind them hits me. "I just know what it's like to be lonely, that's all."

Cocking his head at me, his expression softens, and the barely-there nod is almost a confirmation.

Making my way up the front steps to my house, I turn to see the shape of him dissolving into the darkness of the night. It's when I step inside, dropping my case to the ground, that his words from earlier ring through my head.

_I take Fifth all the way._

A map of our city appears clear and labeled in the forefront of my mind. Fifth Avenue is, as expected, smack-dab in the worst part of the Narrows. The rumor about the new boy being from the gutters is playing out as true, but this isn't what's stunning me.

The boy from the Narrows, as it turns out, had walked two miles out of his way. By my side, in the cold and the dark, he stopped when I'd reached my block and then turned and continued on his way.

**.**

**.**


End file.
